


Second helping's always better

by diamondjacket



Series: Idle hands [2]
Category: SKAM (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Massage Therapy, Blowjobs, Body Worship, Even's POV, Falling In Love, Fluff, Frottage, Humor, Intercrural Sex, Intergluteal Sex, Isak is a slightly more confident bean this time, M/M, Massage, Masseuse!Even, One Shot, Overuse of italics and dashes, Porn with Feelings, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-28
Updated: 2017-06-28
Packaged: 2018-11-20 09:08:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11332701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diamondjacket/pseuds/diamondjacket
Summary: Coming into this last-minute coffee date, Even had honestly thought that once the sheen of the previous day had worn off, things would be different. That he could see Isak and keep a level head, that he wouldn’t be overcome with the urge to just...taste him everywhere. Maybe now, in the harsh light of a new day, he can look at him with fresh eyes and find that he doesn’t feel much at all.No such luck.





	Second helping's always better

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, my little blueberries! I'm sorry I haven't been writing much and have been TERRIBLE at replying to comments—some things have been happening in the ole personal life, and with all the madness with the show ending, I've just been kind of overwhelmed. But I'm here now! And instead of writing a beautiful, tasteful tribute to their everlasting love, like so many of you guys are doing, I wrote a smut. Oops? But some feelings snuck in there, as well, because they're _them_.
> 
> This unnecessary behemoth is a sequel to [this fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10695783), and was temporarily titled "Massage Fic 2: The Smuttening" in my drafts folder. I highly recommend reading the other one first, just so everything makes sense? Even is 20, and Isak is 18/in his third year. Title from a Spice Girls song. No shame (some shame).

So, here’s the thing: Even didn’t really mean for any of this to happen.

Stuff wasn’t perfect—because when has his life ever really been _perfect_ ?—but he had been solid. Good. _Great,_ even.

He’d been getting plenty of sleep, he’d been eating well, and his current cocktail of meds seemed to be doing better for him than its predecessors. Physically, mentally, he’d felt sharper than he had in months.

And not only had he managed to shake off the cobwebs that had been steadily accumulating in his mind since Bakka, but right before his shift started, he had _finally_ mustered the courage to hit the ‘submit’ button on his first official film school application.

Two years later than planned, and he almost certainly won’t get in on the first attempt…but honestly, he’s happy to have gotten to this point at all.

Not that he isn’t a _little_ sad at the idea of leaving his current job. When Sonja had started her massage therapy training after graduation, he had been more than a little surprised—her disposition had always been warm and her manner inviting, but he would never have described her as a particularly tactile person (in the course of their relationship, that had mainly been his jurisdiction). But it turned out she was brilliant at it. She made it look easy, rewarding...fun.

He had watched her grow into the role, get her certification, and land a job. And seeing her thrive, become more and more passionate about her profession with every passing day—it had stirred an inexplicable sense of longing in him. He had never felt more adrift, and he had yearned for that security, that certainty, that _peace_.

And after everything had fallen apart in his final year at Bakka, it was pretty clear that he wasn’t ready to realize his directorial dreams. No—a fresh start is what he had needed, back when he was lost and angry and it felt like Sonja was his only remaining tether to the old life he desperately wanted back.

So when an opportunity to secure that fresh start had presented itself in the form of an apprenticeship at the clinic where Sonja worked, he had grabbed it.

And he liked it—loved it, sometimes. The process of relaxing and healing others quickly became an effective, much-needed source of relaxation for him, too, and more often than not he would go home at the end of the day with a tangible sense of accomplishment.

He had the deft hands of an artist, and he had always been skilled with them. But being able to literally _feel_ the good he was doing for someone had felt momentous, miraculous. Like he was actually capable of contributing some good to the world again, after the protracted stretch of utter uselessness that he had been stuck in since graduation.

He had taken to it better and faster than he or Sonja expected. And when the two of them finally decided to call it quits—nothing but a blessed relief after a four-year run, two of which had felt more obligatory than anything—they decided to remain coworkers. Despite everything, she was still one of his closest friends, and the idea of cutting all ties with her terrified the shit out of him.

They got along well, even when Sonja had started dating Anders, another masseuse at the clinic. Even when Even’s mind started straying to film once more, a dream that had always been a point of mild contention between them. Sonja valued the practical, and practical was one thing film school wasn’t, in her mind.

She’s not wrong, he knows. But he’s finally at the point where he’s ready to start taking risks again. He’s ready for the next phase of his life.

Hence: the application.

Still fresh off the high of taking that giant leap, he had been foot-tappingly anxious to get off work the day before, ready to inhale several beers, kick up his feet, think about his next step, and host a quiet, private celebration with himself.

So when Sonja’s aunt was suddenly rushed to the hospital and she had to cut out early, leaving Even with her last appointment of the day, it had taken just about everything in him not to lock himself in the clinic’s laundry room and scream into a pile of dirty towels.

Which makes him kind of a bad person, he realizes—but still. Towels.

And then Isak had walked in, and all that shit went out the window.

Even’s _entire brain_ had gone offline. Something had seized him, some deep-seated, primal feeling that equal parts exhilarated and terrified him, at the toe-curling sight of Isak’s sharp angles, the striking green of his eyes, the soft, sweet curve of his neck. From that first shocking moment of eye contact, he had been overcome with a searing urge to _..._ take? Be taken? _Both_? A hot, full-body flush had swept down his body, the ground had shifted beneath his feet.

Listen, he’ll be the first to admit that recklessness and impulsiveness are qualities that come naturally to him. He’s always been a fan of spontaneity—has always been the first guy to down a shot, eat weird foods, jump in the pool with all his clothes on at a party.

But that spontaneity usually doesn’t involve sex with a relative _stranger_.

A really hot, half-naked stranger. At his place of employment.

But _God_ , just thinking about the slow, sinuous way Isak had writhed on the table…the deep, full-bodied timbre of his moans…soft, slick skin…strong, pale thighs…the way his red mouth had dropped open when he came, like an invitation…

Faced with all of _that_ in the flesh, there was nothing he could do to stop himself, when he realized how much Isak had wanted it. Wanted _him_. The Even of yesterday had absolutely no chance of resisting.

But, in hindsight...it wasn’t ideal.

And, he thinks to himself with a low stab of shame, it’s not really who he is.

Despite the unusual (and deeply enjoyable) events of the previous day and as much as his friends used to give him shit for it, Even’s always been a monogamy guy. It was an enormous part of why he stayed with Sonja for so long, even when things cooled off and her eye (and his, quite frankly) had started wandering.

He can’t help it—he loves the feeling of full immersion, of completely losing himself in someone, of that heady, all-consuming closeness. He loves testing and pushing and opening himself up. Craves it, sometimes. And call him old-fashioned, but he’s a big believer in the idea that taking the time to build that closeness, the kind he can get drunk on, requires a certain level of...restraint.

Which makes what happened with Isak all the more surreal.

 _Surreal?_ he scoffs internally. _Is that really the word you’d use to describe the best orgasm you’ve had in probably forever?_

In the intervening hours, he’s caught himself wondering if it had all been just a wonderfully elaborate wet dream. A tantalizing figment of his overactive imagination, the product of his prolonged, post-Sonja dry spell and his sudden, renewed interest in dick (if his recent porn selection is any indication, anyway).

But not even his vivid fantasies could have conjured up something that good. Or some _one_ that good.

Plus, there’s still a dirty shirt in his hamper that’s spattered with Isak’s dried come, so. _Yup_ , he thinks, flushing. _That actually happened_.

Which brings him to now—sitting at a rickety table at Kaffebrenneriet, watching the subject of his every thought in the past twenty-four hours order coffee and trying desperately to will away his fledgling boner. Because his dick had started to take notice the second he saw Isak’s face again, like some kind of Pavlovian reaction.

Because that’s apparently the level of control that Even, a 20-year-old, grown-ass man, currently possesses over his own body parts. That’s where he’s at, now.

Coming into this last-minute coffee date, Even had honestly thought that once the sheen of the previous day had worn off, things would be different. That he could see Isak and keep a level head, that he wouldn’t be overcome with the urge to just...taste him everywhere. Maybe now, in the harsh light of a new day, he can look at him with fresh eyes and find that he doesn’t feel much at all.

No such luck.

In fact, the idea seems laughable, now. Because looking at him is still a fucking _gut punch_. Had he really put his hands on this guy just yesterday? All of a sudden, _that_ Even seems like the world’s most shining example of self-control.

When Isak finally takes the seat across from him, an awkward half-smile on his appallingly attractive lips, he has to pinch his own thigh to keep from letting out a humiliating whimper.

“Hi,” Isak says, fingers fluttering on his coffee cup and mouth quirking, a lock of his thick— _and soft, don’t forget soft_ , Even’s brain offers helpfully—hair falling in his face. It’s an annoying, devastatingly fetching look.

Even gulps.

“Hi,” he manages to reply, trying his hardest to offer a smile and look like a calm, relatively normal human man.

Judging by the awkward silence that descends, he’s failed pretty spectacularly. He takes a long swig of his cappuccino to buy some time, disgusted with himself.

When he puts his cup down, Isak’s eyes are locked on Even’s throat and look a little...glazed? Even feels his cheeks grow warm.

“It’s good to see you again,” Even says, seized by a burst of inspiration—that’s an acceptable thing to say in these circumstances, right? And, well...it _is_ good to see Isak again. Very, very good.

His dick is very much in agreement on that score. Would it be weird to say “ _down, boy_ ” at his own crotch in the middle of a public place? Probably, right?

Isak looks momentarily surprised at Even’s words, but he casts his eyes downward and smiles a little, like he’s pleased.

“Yeah, it’s, uh…” he starts, his nervousness incredibly obvious, and incredibly lovely. “It’s good to see you, too.”

Even can’t help but smile at him, powerless not to. “I wasn’t sure you’d want to come.”

He feels his eyes grow wide at his own phrasing, and a pink flush appears on Isak’s face, high on his cheeks.

“I, uh, fuck,” he stammers intelligently. “Sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“It’s okay,” Isak cuts in charitably, and to Even’s relief, he snorts in amusement. “I know what you meant. And uh…I did. Want to...come.” At the word, he bites his lip and flits his eyes up to Even’s face, and Even’s breath catches in his throat.

He’s not sure he’s going to survive this, and they’ve exchanged about a dozen words total so far.

“Uh, good,” he says, coughing a bit to cover his embarrassment. “Glad to hear it.”

He’s wracking his brain for something else to say, something funny, something of substance, something that won’t send Isak running for the fucking hills, when his eyes land on Isak’s shirt.

“Big N.W.A fan?” he asks, interest piqued. Music is familiar, comfortable ground for him, at least.

Isak’s shoulders relax, just a bit. “Yeah,” he says, scratching the back of his neck. “It’s the kind of music you listen to when you want to feel tough.”

Even smirks, delighted. “Tough guy, hmm?” he asks, aiming for flirty and praying he doesn’t look constipated.

The scoff Isak lets out is both exaggerated and adorable.

“Um, _yes_ ,” Isak says, leveling Even with an exasperated glare. “I don’t know what you’re insinuating, but I’m incredibly tough. Toughest guy at my school.”

A startled laugh bubbles up from Even’s throat. “Right, right,” he says, playing along. “I forget, do all the toughest guys get injured from one football tackle, or are you just special?”

“I’ll have you know that was a _foul_ _—_ ”

“Mhm, okay.”

“—an _egregious_ one—”

“I’m sure.”

“I can’t help it if the only way people can beat me is by playing dirty,” Isak says, nose tilted up in a haughty affectation, and Even can’t help it—he cracks up.

Isak’s resulting smile is wide and triumphant, so Even’s not too upset he broke character first.

Mustering up some courage, he looks Isak in the eye and says: “Well, I’m glad whoever it was decided to commit that _egregious foul_.” The thinks for the briefest of seconds about putting his hand on top of Isak’s, but is ultimately too chickenshit to go through with it.

“Rude,” Isak mutters petulantly, but judging by how red the tips of his ears go, he isn’t all that offended.

“Where did this travesty take place?” Even asks, wanting to prod him for information, hungry to learn as much as he can about him without seeming too desperate.

“At school,” Isak says. “Couldn’t get out of gym class.” His eyes get a little wide. “Well, not that I...not that I don’t, you know, enjoy physical activity, or working out, or whatever—”

“It’s okay,” Even says, laughing. _This adorable motherfucker_. “I hated gym. Skipped whenever I could.”

Isak’s shoulders relax, just a little, and he throws Even a relieved smile.

“Where do you go?” Even asks, taking another sip of his lukewarm cappuccino.

“Nissen.”

 _Huh_.

“Nissen,” Even repeats, stomach dropping, trying to stave off the ghost of a bad memory. “I almost transferred there in my third year, you know.”

Isak perks up at that, intrigued. He hasn’t taken a single sip of his coffee yet. “Really?”

Even nods. “Mhm. Ended up staying at Bakka.” He feels his cheeks heat with embarrassment, which is completely ludicrous because it’s not like Isak knows about anything that happened. If he does, he certainly hasn’t shown it. Even presses on. “Too bad—maybe I would have seen you there.”

Isak swallows, fingers flexing where they’re wrapped around his coffee cup.

“I doubt you would have noticed me,” Isak finally says, a much more candid admission than Even is expecting. Even wants to laugh in his face—not only would Even have noticed him immediately, but he can only imagine how much dumb, desperate shit his high school self would have attempted to actually grab Isak’s attention.

He’s probably lucky they’re only meeting now, after Even’s graduated and can pretend he has his shit together.

“Trust me,” he says, shaking his head in disbelief. “I would have noticed you.”

Isak blinks owlishly, like he can’t quite believe his ears. “You think?” he asks, voice cracking a little.

 _Not only would I have noticed you, I would have fucking_ worshiped _the ground you walked on, dude._

_Well. If not for Sonja._

“I’m going to be a director someday,” he says, and it feels great to say that again, and mean it. The declaration makes him bold. “I know beauty when I see it.”

Isak lifts his head to look at him, then, and _wow_ , those eyes. The sight of them knocks the breath right out of Even. _Beautiful things, indeed_.

“You are, you know,” Even says, some self-destructive impulse foolishly compelling him to honesty. “Beautiful.”

Isak gets _very_ red at that, but he rolls his eyes a little, almost like a reflex. “Oh?” he asks, and his voice breaks on the sound.

“I...wanted to say that yesterday,” Even says, and he feels his mouth give a self-conscious twist. “But we were, ah, a little busy.”

Just as he’s starting to worry that he’s crossed the line, Isak’s mouth quirks again.

“We were.”

He looks down and blushes, like he’s remembering. And suddenly _Even_ is remembering, and then Even’s _dick_ is remembering, _oh God_.

“How’s your leg?” he blurts, a truly sad attempt to calm himself down and diffuse the tension crackling in the air between them.

Isak tilts his head like he’s confused, when realization suddenly dawns on his face. “Oh,” he says, a little sheepish. “Um, better, I think.”

He swallows, and Even can’t help but track the enticing movement of his Adam’s apple, can’t help but think about what it would be like to mark up the pale column of his throat.

“But…” Isak trails off, looking incredibly hesitant, like he’s working up to something.

“But what?” Even asks, because he can barely take the buzzing under his skin, a low hum of electricity that wants him to _do something_ , damn it, consequences be damned.

At that, Isak takes a shuddering breath, sets his shoulders, and looks Even right in the eye, gaze hot.

“But I think I could...use another session,” he says. And then he’s shifting his leg under the tiny table until his thigh is pressing right up against Even’s, intent clear as day.

Even’s whole world comes screeching to a halt. A tsunami could sweep in and take the building down all around them, right this very second, and it wouldn’t even be a blip on his radar.

He swallows audibly, sweat beading on his temples, fingers flexing on his lap in anticipation of touching Isak again. “Yeah,” he says, and it comes out way more breathless than he intended, but he can’t bring himself to care. “Yeah, let’s do that.”

 

###

 

For all of the porn-inspired notions of “house calls” that Even’s mind had not-so-helpfully conjured since Isak’s comment yesterday, they soon realize that all of the necessary supplies are at his place (“The only oil I have is olive oil,” Isak had said, smiling bashfully, and in the face of that it had taken everything in Even not to say, _fuck it, crack out the extra virgin_ ).

(... _also, don’t think about virgins, for the love of God_.)

And now...Isak’s in his room.

 _Isak’s_ in his _room_. This miraculously hot specimen, who he had no idea even existed a little over a day ago, is currently hovering near Even’s bed, and somehow, it feels like a major turning point in his life. Like after this moment, he’ll be...different, or something. Changed.

 _Get a fucking grip_ , _Even_ , says a voice in his head that sounds suspiciously like Mikael’s.  _This isn’t your melodramatic Moulin Rouge shit.This is real life._

He knows that. He does. But then Isak turns toward him and shrugs off his hoodie, and Even can easily make out the taper of his waist, the wiry strength in his arms, the dip of one of his collarbones—and he feels that pull again, a want so strong he _aches_ with it.

“You’re really talented,” Isak says, gesturing at Even’s doodle-covered wall and snapping Even out of his reverie. He’s normally pretty chill with the whole receiving compliments thing, but he feels his cheeks heat, this time.

“Thanks,” he says, a little too pleased, hoping with everything he has that Isak isn’t just saying it to be nice.

After one too many beats of silence—because sometime in the last twenty-four hours, Even forgot how normal human beings behave—Isak bounces on his heels and looks at Even expectantly.

“So...how should I…”

Even startles—he’d been so distracted by trying to keep it together, and by Isak’s....everything...that he’d almost forgotten the purpose of this visit.

“Right,” he says, exhaling loudly through his mouth. “Right. Maybe...on the bed?” And wow, isn’t _that_ a mental image—Even doesn’t know how the hell he’s going to survive it when it’s right in front of his face. He honestly can’t decide if he’s thankful or irritated that Sonja took the portable massage table with her when she moved out.

He thinks Isak is blushing a little, but he doesn’t want to read too far into it, for his own sanity.

“Okay,” Isak says quietly. “How do you want me?”

Even’s brain somehow manages to go completely blank and to race with infinite possibilities all at once— _Isak flushed and panting underneath him; Isak on all fours, back arched; Isak holding him down and pressing into him; Isak on top of him, sinking down onto his_ —

Nope. Nope, nope, nope. He shakes his head, trying to banish these wildly inappropriate thoughts before he makes a goddamn fool of himself.

“On your stomach,” he chokes out, sweat already starting to bead on his crown. “Pants off.” And before he can stop himself, he’s blurting: “And your shirt.”

His eyes grow wide at his own bravery—surely even Isak realizes that taking his shirt off is unnecessary, if they’re sticking to the pretense of working his hamstring?

But Isak just smiles shyly, looking down at his shoes, and nods. Even’s stomach flips.

He’s just about to offer to give him some privacy, when Isak lifts his t-shirt up and off in one fluid motion, and— _oh_.

Even is so _unbelievably_ fucked.

He hadn’t really had the time to stop and appreciate the sight of Isak’s upper body yesterday, too floored by the whole “spontaneous sex with a client” thing to take it all in. He’s kicking himself for it now, because Isak is fucking _gorgeous_ —all pale skin and long lines and lean muscles—and Even can’t believe he’s about to touch him again. That Isak _wants_ him to.

When Isak reaches down to unbutton his jeans, Even has to turn away, trying to calm down under the guise of selecting a massage oil from the top of his dresser. The truth is, he knows exactly which one he’s going to use, has known since they left KB. But he badly, badly needs cover while he steadies his thrumming pulse.

Unfortunately, when he finally turns around and sees Isak lying face-down on Even’s bed, in nothing but a pair of dark blue boxer briefs, all that hard work calming down goes flying out the window.

Christ, those legs. _Those_ he had gotten pretty up close and personal with yesterday...but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel a stab of longing when he thinks of how Isak’s thighs would feel squeezing his head.

_Shake it off, asshole. You can’t expect anything._

_(Despite the overwhelming evidence to the contrary_ , his mind chimes in.)

He exhales, rolls his shoulders, and sheds his layers, throwing his denim jacket and hoodie on a nearby chair. Oil in hand, he slowly, cautiously approaches Isak—and then mentally slaps himself, because Isak isn’t exactly dangerous, all sweet and prone like this. (Tell that to Even’s heart, which is pounding like he just ran a 5K.)

It’s been some time since he abandoned the mattress-on-floor approach to his sleeping arrangements, all the rage among the student set, in favor of an actual bed frame. Even so, his bed isn’t quite as tall as the tables at work, so he can see right away that he’s going to have to bend over pretty far to put the kind of pressure on Isak that he wants, especially with his considerable height.

He takes a deep breath. _You can do this. You’re a professional._

His dick couldn’t give two fucks about his massage therapy certification, of course. But he’ll steadfastly ignore his traitorous libido, or die trying.

“Ready?” he asks, and the word comes out a bit gruffer than intended. Isak peers at him over his shoulder and—to Even’s immense frustration—spreads his legs, just a touch.

“Mhm,” he hums in reply, and turns his head back around to rest on his folded arms.

Even swallows, and he’s about ninety percent sure that Isak can hear it. “Right,” he says, clearing his throat awkwardly. “Like last time, okay?”

He pops the cap on his massage oil of choice, a new one in his collection. He had tested it out earlier in the week and was impressed: it’s thin enough to absorb just right, viscous enough to achieve a pleasant glide. And the smell—an earthy, spicy sandalwood—makes it an instant winner in his book.

He pours a generous amount onto his palms and warms it up between them—and with one final, slightly shaky breath, he leans down and takes one of Isak’s feet in his hands, starts working it with what he hopes is the right amount of pressure.

He hadn’t been this keyed up at the start of yesterday’s session, so he hadn’t really noticed how...nice?...Isak’s feet are. Feet have always been his least favorite part of his current line of work, he avoids them whenever he can. But these...these are good feet. Pretty.

_Pretty?! Congratulations, dipshit, you’ve officially graduated to full-on serial killer._

He lets muscle memory take over, pressing his thumbs into Isak’s arch and trying not to jump when he lets out a soft, involuntary grunt. Even’s had this very thing done to him before—he knows how good it can feel. One little noise doesn’t mean anything.

He moves over to Isak’s other foot and gives it the same treatment, keeping his eyes firmly trained on the task at hand. Because if he doesn’t, his eyes will wander upward, up those shapely legs and strong thighs to what Even only assumes is a commensurately incredible ass, and he knows if he lets his eyes drink their fill, he won’t be able to continue.

He starts stroking up to Isak’s calves, which are just as attractive as he remembers, unfortunately. Again, Even starts out with gentle passes and then gradually ramps up the intensity, spreading his fingers out wide and sliding down, and then angling the heels of his hands downward as he sweeps back up. At that, Isak lets out another noise—a high, whimpery thing that makes Even flush hot all over.

“Feel good?” he asks, stupidly, because either answer is going to be devastating in some way or another.

Isak startles, like Even’s voice caught him off guard. But then he’s sighing and he rolling his back, ever so slightly, a small, cat-like stretch. Almost content.

_God, he’s beautiful._

“Yeah,” Isak says, voice gravelly and low in a way that goes straight to Even’s dick. “‘S’nice.”

Even doesn’t dare respond, too preoccupied with keeping his hands steady as he works Isak over. He smooths upward towards Isak’s thighs, the skin soft and slick under his hands, the rich scent of the oil settling in his nose and fogging his senses.

Isak wasn’t really limping during the short walk to Even’s apartment, so Even knows that the injury can’t be all that severe (he tries not to think about what that means). All the same, he takes care to lighten his touch as he works on the back of Isak’s problem thigh, testing the waters.

When Isak doesn’t hiss or flinch, he ups the ante, pressing in harder and alternating the pressure so it comes in waves, slowly working out any lingering tension, keeping a watchful eye on Isak’s reaction in case it’s too much.

Fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on what part of Even’s body you ask), Isak seems completely comfortable. So much so, that at a particularly firm dig of Even’s thumbs, Isak lets out a deep, breathy, utterly gorgeous moan. It’s slightly muffled by his arms and the bed, but it’s loud as a bullhorn in Even’s ears.

The little sigh that follows is just as devastating, and when Isak spreads his legs just a bit more, like he can’t help it, Even’s breath catches in his throat.

And, yup, it’s unmistakable now: certain parts of Even are definitely taking notice.

They’d have to be fucking _dead_ not to notice, it’s true, but Even kind of thought that aging past twenty would come with a little more...self-control? Instead it’s like he’s thirteen again, getting humiliatingly hard from the sight of a pretty face.

Okay, so this is _slightly_ more than that. And Isak is probably the most beautiful person he’s ever seen. Or, you know, ejaculated on.

Still.

He knows they’ve...done stuff...already. And it was great, and it seemed like _Isak_ thought it was pretty great, too. But even so, he can’t shake the idea that he’s somehow taking advantage of his position, that he holds too much power in this situation. He can’t— _won’t_ —pressure Isak into anything.

No matter what his dick wants.

That thought in mind, he makes an executive decision to cut the thigh massage a little short so he can give himself the chance to calm down. Surely, moving on to less _suggestive_ areas of Isak’s body will drop the temperature in the room a little bit?

Even reaches for the bottle of oil again, and finds that it’s reasonably warm to the touch.

“Can I do your back?” he asks quietly, terrified that any tremors in his voice will make his feelings obvious. “Uh, sometimes you can carry tension from an injury, in your, um. In your back.”

 _Very smooth_.

Isak exhales against Even’s pillow, a fetching, rosy flush traveling down the back of his neck. “Uh huh,” he says, shifting his position so his arms are down by his sides and his face is turned, his profile stark against the linens. Even probably stares for several seconds too long.

He shakes himself out of it and drizzles the fragrant oil directly onto Isak’s bare back, and he can’t help but admire the way Isak writhes and gasps softly in surprise. He watches the oil slide down the line of Isak’s spine, pooling in the dip at the small of his back, the afternoon sunlight streaming from his bedroom window illuminating the enticing play of his muscles. He almost groans aloud.

So his plan is already a horrendous failure. Wonderful.

All of that is nothing compared to how it feels to actually put his hands on that creamy, freckled skin, to slide them down the hard plane of his body, to hear Isak’s rumbling grunt in response.

He makes the mistake of looking at Isak’s face, then, and sees that Isak’s eyes are closed, his mouth bitten and red and slightly open. Even feels his dick give an inconvenient twitch at the picture he makes.

Tamping down on that feeling as hard as he can, he moves around to the side of the bed to get at Isak from a different angle. Even flushes at the feeling of his warm, slick palms slipping across Isak’s ribs down to his narrow hips, where he’s beautifully soft and his muscles are firm—but he has just enough give over his hipbones for Even to easily imagine what it would feel like to grab and pull and hold onto them while he’s—

Aaaaaand now Even’s fully hard. _Fuck_.

Thankfully, the jeans he’s wearing are probably loose enough to conceal it.

Hopefully.

He knows it’s a terrible idea as soon as it pops into his head, but before his body can catch up with his brain, he’s leaning fully over Isak and digging his elbows into the flesh of his back. A startled, guttural moan escapes Isak’s throat at the acute increase in pressure, and Even’s cock _throbs_ at the sound.

“Is that good?” Even asks, and God, he sounds embarrassingly fucked out and they haven’t even done anything.

Isak whimpers a bit as Even starts slowly rolling his elbows—and Even knows how intense this can be, how deeply this kind of contact is felt. He wants to make it good for him.

“Yeah,” Isak whispers, and even though Even kind of knew that already, he preens at the confirmation.

He removes one arm and uses it to brace himself on the bed, putting more weight on his other elbow. “Want me to go harder?” he asks, and he’s bent down so low that his mouth isn’t too far from Isak’s ear. He thinks he feels Isak give a barely-there shudder, which Even’s choosing to focus on instead of how awkwardly and inappropriately he phrased that question.

Isak—who seems to be having a harder and harder time keeping still—groans softly, inhales sharply, and nods bashfully into the pillow.

So Even just _goes for it_ , digging his elbow into the sensitive crevice where rib meets hip, just a touch harder than the way he was taught...but he suspects (hopes) Isak likes it that way. He’s not disappointed: Isak lets out a whine high in his throat and grips the duvet tightly in his fists, knuckles white and back undulating under Even’s weight like he can’t help it.

It’s in the resulting fog of lust that Even briefly contemplates the idea of reaching down with his free hand to palm himself, just to alleviate a tiny bit of the unbearable pressure that’s making him crazy—but he’s able to catch himself before he follows through with that truly insane idea, thank _God_.

But he’s sweating rather profusely now, can feel his cock leaking in his pants, and it’s becoming more and more difficult to remind himself that this whole encounter has to be completely on Isak’s terms, that he won’t do anything until Isak asks for it, that it’s not a good idea to flip Isak over and yank down his underwear and suck him down right here, right now.

Terrified of his rapidly slipping control, he decides to change tactics again.

He pulls away, stands up, and takes a step back, trying to ignore the bereft whimper Isak gives at the sudden lack of contact.

“Can you turn your body so you’re facing me?” he asks, staring at the crack in the ceiling as he tries to regain his composure.

Isak is still for a moment, like he’s taking some extra time to process this new information, before he hesitantly moves up on his elbows and rotates around so he’s lying horizontally across the bed, keeping his hips flush against the duvet. Even tries valiantly not to think about what that means.

“Great,” he says weakly, taking in Isak’s pinking cheeks, his hazy eyes, his cherry mouth, and wishing he hadn’t even looked.

He slicks up his hands again, the oil from before having absorbed into Isak’s skin and left him soft and sweet-smelling. With more than a little trepidation, Even leans down and slides his palms across Isak’s neck and upper back, and the close proximity of this new angle lets him apply solid, steady pressure.

“ _Unh_ ,” Isak moans quietly, the noise forced out of him when Even fans his hands across his shoulder blades and presses in. Even diligently ignores it, doing his best to work what feels like considerable tension out of Isak’s neck— _he probably studies a lot_ , Even thinks nonsensically—gently thumbing the juncture where it meets his broad, strong shoulders.

It’s when he’s applying firm strokes up and down Isak’s upper back, leaning more and more forward and closer and closer to Isak’s face with every pass, that he realizes just how suggestive this position looks.

And that’s when something _incredible_ happens.

Because he’s working hard, trying to get lost in the familiar feel of his work, when he suddenly feels something brush against his cock through his jeans--an intense shock of pleasure racing up his spine and making him jump. He’s almost afraid to look down, can barely stand it, but he has to know—

And sure enough, Isak’s _right there_ , staring right at Even’s crotch, his hand in mid-air.

Isak just touched his dick. _Holy shit, Isak just touched his dick._

The world around him falls away, and his heart trips.

Because Isak is looking up at him now, eyes glazed and breath ragged through his bitten mouth. Even’s never seen anything better—wanted someone more—in his entire life.

The hold each other’s gazes for what feels like an eternity but what’s probably only a handful of seconds, and it’s hot, God it’s hot, but he has to wait, needs to know this is what Isak wants.

And then Isak swallows audibly, licks his lips, and whispers: “ _Please_.”

Even’s stunned, speechless, powerless to do anything other than nod and try not to faint at how quickly his blood is rushing south—what little remaining blood wasn’t already there, anyway.

Isak runs his fingers lightly, curiously, over Even’s bulge through his clothes, his face twisted in an expression that’s half awe, half concentration—and fuck, even his feather-light strokes feel absolutely amazing, warm darts of heat lighting up his nerves. When Isak starts rubbing harder, getting the heel of his hand into it, Even moans louder than intended, his fingers still a little greasy from the oil and struggling to grip Isak’s bare shoulder for purchase.

“Feels good,” Even manages to grunt, a sentiment he imagines is pretty fucking clear at this point. Isak seems bolstered by the praise all the same, rubs a little faster now, and Even does his best to prevent his knees from buckling.

Then Isak stops, and Even tries not to whimper.

“I think I…” Isak trails off, more to himself than to Even. But before Even can ask him to elaborate, Isak’s mouth—Isak’s _mouth_ —is suddenly on Even’s cock, against his fly, just a light brush of his lips that Even shouldn’t really be able to feel through all the fabric separating them, but it makes his cock jerk anyway, makes him flush hot all over.

When Isak slowly, tentatively reaches up to the button of Even’s jeans, Even covers his hand with his own.

“Are you…” he says, through labored breaths. “...you don’t have to…” His mind isn’t exactly operating at full capacity, and although he doesn’t know for sure, he suspects this might be Isak’s first time doing anything.

If that’s true, he can’t help but feel like Isak deserves more...better, than this.

But Isak releases a shuddering exhale, and when he looks up to meet Even’s eyes again, his own are dark and heavy, pupils blown wide.

“Let me,” he says softly, with a level of certainty that leaves Even completely floored. Then, stronger: “I want to.”

He wastes no time popping open the button of Even’s fly and dragging down the zipper, the reduced confinement already fucking divine, and Even reaches down to help pull the jeans down over his dick.

The second they’re out of the way, Isak’s mouth is immediately back on him, his breath hot and humid against him through his boxers, lips running up the hard length of him. He can feel everything, this time, just a thin layer of fabric between them, but that’s almost nothing compared to the sight of Isak mouthing at his cock, nuzzling it, exploring it.

“ _Mm, fuck_ ,” Even sighs, not sure how much longer he can handle this exquisite teasing. He and Isak reach for the waistband of his boxers almost simultaneously, and Even doesn’t ask if it’s okay, this time—he takes the dive and yanks them down, cock bobbing up against his belly.

When he takes stock of Isak, he’s...staring at it. Almost transfixed. Maybe...nervous? Scared?

Even feels the guilt well up almost instantly. “You really don’t have to, if you’re—” he starts, and Isak cuts him off in the most wonderful way by leaning in and running his tongue up Even’s cock, slowly, cautiously.

So...not scared, then.

Even’s already dangerously close to coming at the mere sight of Isak’s wet, pink tongue lapping at him, can hardly believe that this fantasy come to life is _actually a thing that is happening_.

 _This is happening, this is happening, this is real, ohmygod_ —

Isak shifts, then, gets up on his hands and knees for better access and then fucking _bears down_ on Even’s cock, sucking the head into his _warm wet soft_ mouth, and it’s so good that Even can’t even find the strength to moan. His mouth drops open on a silent, aborted cry, and Isak isn’t even doing that much. He’s lightly bobbing his head, trying to hit a good rhythm, clearly a little unsure of how to proceed.

Isak pulls off with a smacking noise that makes Even want to do something crazy—like hold Isak to the bed and rut against his stomach until he comes—and looks down.

“I’ve never...” Isak says quietly, confirming Even’s suspicions. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Even knows that, in the abstract. In practice, however, he’s about ninety-nine percent sure he’s never experienced anything better, and making sure Isak understands that suddenly becomes of paramount importance.

“You’re perfect,” is what he ultimately comes up with. A ludicrous oversimplification, sure, but it might as well be Shakespeare to his struggling, sex-dumb brain. “Here, I—” He reaches down and gently takes one of Isak’s hands in his and wraps it around his dick, shuddering at the feel of it.

He opens his mouth to explain what he wants, but Isak immediately catches on. Not even a full second goes by before Even is engulfed in glorious heat again and Isak’s hand is working what his mouth can’t reach—and suddenly, it’s clicking, it’s working, everything’s coming together, he’s threading his shaking fingers through Isak’s thick hair and pulling hard, every breath is fucking agony. When Isak tongues his slit, chasing the taste, Even finds himself moaning like a whore—and Isak gives a little groan in response and the vibrations are incredible, they’re amazing, they’re _too much_ —

“Isak,” he pants, frantically tapping him on the shoulder. Isak pulls off his cock with a pop and looks up at Even, breathing harshly.

His chin is covered in spit, and his mouth is red and raw and wet.

Even’s not going to make it.

“If you don’t stop…” he says, closing his eyes and trying to think of...just about _anything_ else to pull himself back from the brink. “I’m gonna…”

Pretty humiliating, all around. Ten out of ten. But when Isak’s face dawns in recognition, and a slow, remarkably smug smile creeps over his face, Even has a hard time giving a fuck. Or thinking about anything other than kissing that endearing smirk off Isak’s face.

And, well—wait. He can actually do that, right?

So, incredibly, he does. He leans down and slots their mouths together for the first time today, sweet and sure, and it doesn’t get too heated until Even catches the faintest taste of himself on Isak’s lips—and then it suddenly gets _really_ heated, and before Even knows it he’s coaxing Isak’s mouth open and sucking on his tongue—is that even a _thing_ people do?—and Isak is reaching up and around Even’s body to cup Even’s ass, making him gasp and break the kiss.

Or whatever that was. “Kiss” kind of seems like a stretch, at this point.

They look at each other for a moment, and then it’s like they reach this silent, mutual understanding to get naked—a pretty useful psychic connection, if Even says so himself. He toes off his shoes and socks, pulling his pants and boxers off the rest of the way, while Isak stands so he can tug his underwear down his oil-soft legs.

And then they’re just...naked. And it’s _awesome_.

Isak looks down, mouth falling open as he takes in Even’s body for the first time. And then he’s taking Even by the wrist and pulling him towards the bed, falling backward and tugging Even on top of him. Hesitant, like he thinks that there’s a possibility that Even doesn’t want this. _Hah!_

Even’s not going to let him think that for long.

He climbs up the length of Isak’s body, admiring his lean chest, the solid curve of his biceps, and _holy shit,_ his _abs_. Suddenly, Even’s feeling more than a little inadequate, with his awkward, lanky frame and his general lack of muscle tone.

Listen, gyms are scary, okay? He could, like, drop a barbell and break his foot, or get a staph infection, or catch a glimpse of some old man’s wrinkly ball sac in the locker room, or…

_Yeah, okay, that’s enough of that._

Flinging those thoughts as far from his mind as possible, he gives into the urge he’s been feeling all fucking day, putting his mouth on Isak’s neck and kissing down his chest, tonguing his nipples and feeling them get stiff under his tongue—Isak gasps and arches at that, and Even’s going to file that one away, oh yes he is.

He kisses just about every inch of Isak’s skin he can reach, in love with the taste of him and the way he writhes and bucks and sighs. This is so much better than just touching him with his stupid _hands_ , fuck. _Who needs them? Massage, schmassage._

He reaches Isak’s cock, hard and pink and thick and gorgeous, and he feels saliva _flood_ his mouth, it’s ridiculous. Suddenly, there’s nothing he wants more, nothing more important, than getting his mouth on that. He looks up to find Isak staring at him, gobsmacked, staring at Even like he holds the key to all of life’s problems.

Suddenly, Even’s self-consciousness goes flying out the window.

He raises his eyebrows in question, and Isak just nods again, a little too quickly, and Even can’t help but smile at him.

That is, until he leans in and swallows Isak down. No point in wasting time, that’s Even’s motto.

Isak’s body jackknifes off the bed, arches up like he can’t stop it, so Even holds his hips down and just goes to town, swirling his tongue and taking as much of Isak as he can down his throat. He’s only done this a couple of times—once when he and Sonja were on a brief break in the middle of his second year, and again immediately following their break-up—but he knows what he likes. He knows he’s good with his mouth, no matter what parts he’s pleasing.

He also knows that he has no gag reflex—a useful tidbit for which he can thank Elias and a particularly fascinating session of Truth or Dare, in which unspeakable acts may or may not have been performed on a banana.

Isak starts moaning every time Even hollows his cheeks on the upstroke and tongues the head of his cock, one hand fisting the sheets and the other threading through the hair on the nape of Even’s neck. Even wants nothing more than to suck him until he comes down his throat, to make Isak’s first time as incredible as he deserves.

But yeah—this is Isak’s first time. Which means this is probably about to be over, pretty quickly.

He bobs his head a few more times, letting Isak hit the back of his throat—at which Isak _wails_ in extremely gratifying fashion—before he pulls off completely.

The little whimper in response is both painful and sexy as hell, but Even can’t think about that, now.

“What do you want?” he asks Isak, voice rough from blowing him, pulling back just a little to look directly at Isak’s flushed face.

Isak takes a moment to calm down, breathing hard and looking at Even through heavy-lidded eyes. Finally, he whispers:

“Kiss me.”

And Even could never deny him that, _will_ never deny him that, if it’s within his power, so he surges up—

But before their lips meet, he stops just short, his gaze suddenly overwhelmed by the sight of Isak’s face like his brain can’t compute it. Their eyes meet and he can’t help but just...drink Isak in, absorb every inch of that sharp jawline, the depth of his irises, the sloping curve of his nose, the smooth expanse of his cheek. He reaches up to cup Isak’s face in his palm, shaken by it, by the hunger he feels deep in his gut.

Finally, he leans down and brushes their mouths together, slowly, lightly, almost chaste. Sweet and simple, like a first kiss. The first kiss they never actually had, in their haste to devour each other.

He just... _melts_ into it, feels Isak do the same beneath him. The backs of his eyes actually sting, just a little, like he could cry. _What the fuck?_

But when Isak tugs Even’s bottom lip into his mouth, things take a turn, and Even is suddenly tilting his head to deepen their kiss, running his tongue over the seam of Isak’s mouth and licking inside. It’s frantic and messy, and the hand that isn’t on Isak’s cheek is dropping to stroke Isak’s gloriously naked waist, Isak’s hands coming up to grip Even’s back, and suddenly their hips are in perfect alignment and their cocks are brushing together and they’re gasping into each other’s mouths at the molten shock of it.

Even stills—they both do. Panting, watching, waiting to see how the other reacts. To see if this new development is okay.

And then Isak grinds up tentatively, slowly, like he’s giving Even permission. Even groans at the the wanton quality of it and the feel of Isak against him, and he grinds down with more force, sweaty skin on sweaty skin. Even honestly can’t believe he kept his pants on last time and missed this, how great they are together with nothing between them.

 _There’s something you can do to make it better_ , his brain supplies—helpfully, for once—and he reaches over to the other side of the bed to grab the discarded bottle of massage oil, uncapping it and drizzling a healthy amount where their hips are flush, watching the tantalizing way it drips down, down, down.

God, they look good together.

He tosses the bottle and slowly starts a rhythm again—and oh, this was such a good idea, _so good_ , because everything is slick and wonderful and Isak’s resulting moan echoes off the ceiling tiles, and soon they’re fucking against each other _hard_ , the oil making every glide exquisite and perfect and so, so wet, and Isak’s head lolls back, mouth open and neck bared, and Even leans down to suck a mark onto his throat, picking up the pace, and then—

And then.

In his desperation, Even had used a lot of oil—way too much, arguably—so when he angles down on a particularly forceful thrust, his cock slips behind Isak’s balls and into the warm, snug channel where his thighs meet his ass.

His mouth drops open, both in shock and at how amazing it feels, and Isak gasps, eyes wide.

And oh, Even wants to keep going, wants to fuck into that hot, tight space until he comes—but he forces his hips to still. Because grinding is one thing, but this...this is something entirely different. It doesn’t matter how he feels.

He needs to know what Isak wants.

A few beats pass, and Even’s just about to apologize and back off and re-position them...when Isak lets out a breath and tightens his legs even further, rolling his hips downward, sinking his teeth into his bottom lip.

That Even doesn’t come, then and there, is a goddamn, loaves-and-fishes miracle of historic proportions.

He can feel his face go slack in what must be the dumbest expression of all time, mouth gaping. “Are you sure?” he asks, kind of judging himself for it. Isak’s capable of knowing what he wants, and it’s not like they’re about to fuck for _real_ , or anything.

Even though it kind of feels like it.

But Isak’s impatient, now. “Do it,” he whines, and that’s the last straw for Even. He’s only so strong.

He lifts up on his arms and reaches for the oil one more time, pours more on Isak’s crotch and inner thighs, hears Isak’s breath hitch at the feel of it, watches it drip down to where Even’s cock is still pressed between Isak’s legs and brushing his ass.

And then he’s grabbing Isak by the hips and thrusting in, and in, and in, and God, that wet glide feels like nothing else. Every slam of Even against him punches a tortured moan out of Isak, and Even knows his own huffing has grown loud in the silence. Isak reaches down with one hand, dips two fingers in the oily mess between them and slicks them up—and then he’s pulling them back and rubbing his own nipple, the oil shiny and obscene as it hardens under his touch.

He’s going to kill Even. Even is going to perish, right here, covered in sandalwood oil. At least his corpse will smell good when the authorities find it.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Isak sighs, head thrown back, clearly enjoying the way his fingers slip and slide against his pebbled flesh, his other hand reaching down to circle his cock.

“Yeah,” Even says, smoothing his hands down to Isak’s thighs where they’re clamped tight around him, fucking harder between them. “Come on.”

But it’s not quite enough, not yet—so Even moves forward so every inch of their torsos are pressed together, has to kiss Isak’s slack, panting mouth.

The new angle forces them closer, makes him shift the angle of this thrusts—and suddenly his cock is slipping up between Isak’s cheeks, a crude imitation of what Even would like to be doing to Isak ( _would like Isak to do to him_ ).

He thinks about what it would be like to sink inside, press in deep, to be as close to Isak as physically possible. The thought spurs him on, his hips snapping fast and hard, Isak’s whines turning into something lower, deeper, sexier.

“Gonna come?” Even murmurs, mouth brushing Isak’s ear, and Isak shivers in his arms. He has to know, he has to get Isak there before he can let himself go.

“Uh huh,” Isak sighs, nodding. “ _Fuck_.”

Even laves the mark he left earlier on Isak’s neck with his tongue, the wet sound of their skin smacking together harsh and unforgiving around them.

“Look so good like this,” he babbles, because sex makes him honest, and he’s never felt more strongly about anything.

His body is now shaking with the effort of maintaining the brutal pace he’s set, and his limbs are starting to buzz and his vision is graying out on the edges. He can feel his peak coming, can feel the unmistakable heat coiling in his belly, and he’s not going to make it, he’s not going to last much longer—

And then the head of his cock catches on Isak’s rim, just a little, and suddenly Isak is crying out and shooting off between them, his back arching violently and his thighs clenching hard around Even.

Even barely has time to appreciate how beautiful Isak looks when he comes, or the hot and dirty rightness of Isak’s come smearing between them, before he’s thrusting once, twice, three times and falling over the edge himself, intense waves of pleasure pulsing and radiating outward to fingers and toes. He feels incredible, invincible, like he’s fucking _flying_.

It’s the best orgasm of his life.

He clings to Isak as he shakes and shakes, completely and utterly wrecked, can feel Isak still trembling beneath him as he runs his hands over the sweaty expanse of Even’s back. Even gives one final, aborted rut against Isak’s ass, feels the wetness of his own come there, and he can’t help but shudder again.

It takes a good couple of minutes for Even’s body to stop tingling and his breath to slow and his senses to come back online, and when he opens his eyes, he sees Isak staring back at him, quiet and awed.

Slowly, Isak reaches a hand up to stroke Even’s cheek—and he looks embarrassed, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed this simple indulgence. Like they didn’t just fuck each other’s brains out.

He’s ridiculous. He’s _ridiculous_. Even feels a warm, syrupy smile spread on his face—couldn’t hold it back if he tried.

When Isak quirks his mouth into a grateful half-smile in return, it feels like victory.

Isak blushes, but holds Even’s gaze. “Wow,” he says, an echo of yesterday that feels so similar, but so very, very different. Even feels like he’s lived an entire lifetime since then. Since earlier _today_ , even.

“Wow,” he affirms, kissing Isak’s fingers when they wander over to trace his lips.

Now that Isak knows he’s allowed to touch Even’s face, he doesn’t seem to want to stop, sweeping his fingers down the bridge of his nose, across his eyebrows, against the shell of his ear.

“I didn’t know it could be like that,” Isak says, immediately flushing harder at the admission, and Even’s heart clenches.

_He liked it. He likes you. He feels the way you feel._

_...maybe._

He schools his face into something resembling calm, but can’t quite keep the affection hidden, feels naked with it.

“Me neither,” he says, because it’s true. Four years with Sonja, and he loved her, he knows he did, about as much as he thought he was capable of loving anyone. But it’s starting to hit him that what just happened with Isak was something entirely different.

Whether it’s a _good_ different or a _dangerous_ different, he can’t say.

They stare at each other for a moment longer, before Even realizes—a little sadly—that they’re going to have to separate before their come dries completely and things get gross.

Grosser than they already are, anyway, because he’s now noticing the considerable mess they’ve made—oil and come _everywhere_ , on their crotches and legs and stomachs. And fuck, he’s going to have to throw these sheets away now, oil-stained as they are from Isak’s back and how enthusiastic Even was in drizzling it on when things got going.

These are—were—is best sheets, too. But it’s his own fault. First rule of massage: always put a towel down.

He gently extricates himself, shuddering when the cool air hits the parts of him that are damp and warm from Isak’s body heat. Shrugging since it can’t get any _more_ ruined, he pulls the edge of the topsheet down and wipes at them both as best and as quickly he can, taking extra care to be as gentle as possible in...certain areas. Isak lifts a hand like he wants to help, but ultimately just lets Even work, his limbs still a little wobbly.

Finally satisfied, Even drops back down beside Isak, head pillowed on his smooth chest. When he feels Isak’s hand come up to stroke the sweat-soaked hair off his temple, he flushes happily.

“I hope you’re a cuddler,” he says, glancing up at Isak and grinning, mostly to conceal how nervous he is that he’s about to be kicked out of bed.

Well, it’s _his_ bed. So more like Isak would kick _himself_ out of Even’s bed. Or something.

Listen, Even’s not a details guy. Especially when he just came his brains out through his dick.

Isak hums, pressing a cautious kiss to Even’s forehead. “I don’t really know what I am,” he says with a self-deprecating snort, and Even huffs out a little laugh against Isak’s collarbone. “But I...I know I like this,” Isak continues, much quieter.

Even smiles, lifts a hand and strokes Isak’s cheek with his thumb. “Me too,” he whispers, leaning up to brush their mouths together. Isak’s lips are soft and pliant and they open up for him immediately, and Even honestly thinks he could do this forever. Maybe longer.

He breaks the kiss but keeps their foreheads pressed together, breathing deep. The scent of the oil is still hanging heavy in the air, but all he can smell is Isak, salt and musk and _man_ and everything he wants.

“We keep doing things backwards,” Even laughs. He nuzzles their noses together, because apparently he’s lost his damn mind. Lucky for him, Isak nuzzles back, so he decides not to waste any more time feeling weird about it.

“What do you mean?” Isak asks, hitching his leg up to tangle with one of Even’s.

Even shrugs. “We keep, you know…” he gestures vaguely in the direction of their dicks. “...when I should be, like, taking you out. Getting to know you.”

He’s not all _that_ upset about it, if he’s honest. But at the end of the day, he’s a romantic at heart, a devoted student of epic love stories. Every story is special, sure, but there’s an order to these things, a formula, a way they should be done.

And he’s blown it straight to hell. Twice.

“Technically we went on a date first, this time,” Isak says, smirking, and Even can’t help but plant another kiss on his mouth.

He pulls away. “I guess so.”

Isak studies him for a moment, eyes roving Even’s features, before a slow, soft smile blooms on his face. He’s beautiful, and glowing, and Even’s stomach gives an almighty swoop.

“Maybe,” Isak starts, cupping Even’s cheek. “Maybe this is just what works for us.”

Even can’t help it. He doesn’t know if Isak has siblings, or if he’s afraid of spiders, or if he has a  middle name, for fuck’s sake. And there’s a lot—too much—that Isak doesn’t know, Even’s mind drifting to the pills currently sitting in his medicine cabinet.

But despite all that, he still feels it. That pull. Like this could be something big, something great.

_Something epic._

He returns Isak’s smile, feeling lighter than he has in a long time.

Because this might not be the right way to do things...but it’s theirs.

 

###

 

 **_To Sonja_ ** _: Could you cover for me? Calling in sick tomorrow._

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [Tumblr](http://diamondjacket.tumblr.com).


End file.
